Croaking Frogs

One of the features of our new garden that surprised me when we first saw the design on paper was the pond.

I don't remember explicitly asking our designer to include one, yet once I saw it on the plan I quite liked the idea. We had a pond here when we moved in, but it was a sad little effort. Hidden under the large acer planted in the border between us and our semi-detached neighbour, it had clearly suffered some damage to its liner as it never filled up beyond half-way and the half that did fill was always choked with weed. Notable mainly for its brief occupation by a drunken party guest on the evening of our housewarming, the pond nevertheless proved to be home to a small population of frogs. When we dug it out and filled in the hole in April 2009 the frogs disappeared, only to reappear again one by one whenever we moved a large rock, wooden sleeper, or pile of twigs anywhere in the garden.

So I had great hopes that once garden construction was complete and the pond had become established it would attract back some of our original colony. As we moved into Spring and the water lost its winter chill this did indeed prove to be the case. We caught the occasional glimpse of a pair of eyes gazing at us from just above the still surface, and while watering the garden early one morning during the recent hot spell I disturbed four adult frogs with the hose as they slept in the damp patches under the leafier shrubs and bushes. It appeared we had succeeded not only in attracting back the originals but adding to the numbers. Until things took a turn for the worse.

We began to find bodies. One or two only at first - a dried-up husk on the path and a pale, mottled corpse lying on its back in the shallows near the pond edge - but having disposed of these they were soon replaced by others. The area is occasionally visited by a heron, so initially we wondered if this had been attacking the frogs. Or maybe one of the many local cats was to blame? But in all cases the frogs appear not to have been injured and in the majority of cases they die in the pond itself, their ghostly pale bodies often floating upright with their back legs resting on the bottom so they appear to be standing up under the water. One awful weekend morning I fetched four bodies out of the water.

These aren't pets, of course, but I must admit to feeling sad at their demise, along with a nagging feeling of guilt in case we're somehow responsible for the deaths. It's nice to have somewhere for the frogs to live, but I didn't expect or want it to become a death trap. I've started mentally referring to it as the Dead Pool.

The sides of the pond are fairly steep, and the exposed liner is slippery when wet. Added to this the recent hot spell meant water levels became quite low, so it occurred to me that the frogs may not be able to get out once they'd jumped in. Is it possible for frogs to drown? Amphibians breathe, at least in part, through their skin, so I guessed that if they were trapped in water that had a low oxygen concentration (which our pond almost certainly has, with no submerged oxygenating plants or other means of replenishing the levels) it could be possible they were effectively asphyxiating. As you will have noticed from the photo, I've added a rudimentary "frog ladder" to the pond to help them get out. They're still dying.

Brief research online suggests the problem may be a slow-release fertiliser in the baskets of the pond plants that is toxic to frogs. I don't remember seeing any dead frogs before the plants were installed, so this is a possible cause, but there again the plants arrived fairly early in the year, so I don't remember seeing any live ones before then either.

My research also pointed up that, since amphibians absorb much more than oxygen through their delicate skins, they are a kind of "environmental indicator" species that will be affected by any chemical pollution. So maybe it's that. Discussions with neighbours who also have a pond have revealed they too are suffering from frogs that croak in the less traditional sense. I don't take much comfort from the knowledge that we're not the only ones this is happening to.

100TWC - Day 99: Friendship

This post has a lot of tags. It started off with more but I blew Blogger's limit. I didn't even know there was a limit! See, friendship touches so many areas of my life that Blogger can't cope. I'm half expecting it to seize up in the middle of this post. Let's see how we get on...

With the last post of my 100-day (aka 100-theme) writing challenge in sight, friendship has been much on my mind. I've had some really nice comments and feedback on here, but what's been even better, and more surprising, is the feedback I've had in real life. Whenever I've met up with friends at least one of them has commented on each occasion how much they've been enjoying the writing. I've been enjoying it too, of course, in fact that's one of the things I'll be including in the "lessons learned" follow-up post I'll be writing over the weekend. But it's one thing to gain enjoyment from something yourself, and totally another thing to find out that you've been giving enjoyment to others. Writing can be a solitary experience (all writers say this, at least those who speak/write/email to me) with -- often -- not much in the way of validation or appreciation, so it's really cool to hear the opinions of readers, which posts they liked best and why, etc.

I'd also be really interested to hear which ones folk thought didn't work out so well. To see how this matches my own feelings, for one thing, but also because it's all part of the learning experience. Just doing this stuff has helped me improve enormously, but really good feedback that mentions the bad as well as the good, is also a huge help.

I appear to have drifted off topic somewhat, so to drag it back to friendship: I've been lucky. When I talk about the times we have with mates -- the trips to the Lakes, weekends away, meals out (and in) -- the single most common response is how unusual it is for a bunch of guys to have kept a communal friendship going for so long. I'm not sure how rare it is in the great scheme of things, but those who comment on it seem to think it's pretty rare. Much more common for women to have a "girly group of friends"; less so for guys to have a "blokey group", apparently.

I've known for many years that social groups depend on key individuals to hold them together. I had an old colleagues network at one time -- around two dozen people who all used to work together in the same part of the organisation until one dark day a reorganisation came along and scattered us all across the company. Some left for other jobs, some took the opportunity for early retirement, most split up into three or four units, separated by geography, department and skill set. For several years after the split, we would get together two or three times a year (Christmas, obviously, and then one or two other meals or social events like bowling, walking, pub crawls). These were all marvellous events, well attended and very popular, but they all had a single individual -- the same guy in every case -- as the instigator. And then one day he stopped doing it. And none of us have ever met up again since that day.

The small group of friends I always refer to as my "Nottingham" mates (even though only two of them live there now) have strength in depth when it comes to organising get-togethers. It's not driven by just one of us. Once a few weeks, or a months, have gone by since our last meet, one or other of us will get in touch to set something else up. Often we don't need to do this, as we arrange it in advance at the previous one. It's a source of infinite variety, pleasure, amusement and fun to Nikki and I to be able to be part of this, as I'm sure anyone who is lucky enough to have their own strong ties of friendship will understand. Friends, they say, are the family you choose, and I would tag that with "lines I wish I'd written" if there was any space left in the tag list :0)

As I've discovered (and blogged about before), friends come at you from all parts of life, and another group that I've been blessed to reconnect with -- a few years back now -- has been the curry crew. We may only meet once a month, but I find myself looking forward to those evenings immensely. The conversation always flows, it's always stimulating and amusing, and the food is only the icing on the cake (if curry can be said to be any kind of icing).

I have a small number of friends that fall into another different category. All of the aforementioned might be classed as "regular" friends, and if such a term fits then this small number I'm talking about now might correspondingly be referred to as "irregular" friends. People who, over the years, have meandered in and out of my life seemingly at random, but who whenever we meet will pick up the threads of friendship (and even conversation!) and knit them back into something recognisable within a few hours. I met one such person outside a hotel once, a few years back. Having not seen him for more than five years, suddenly there he was, leaving a hotel at which I had arrived to meet someone else. We only had chance for twenty minutes frantic catching up and exchanging of current contact details, but it rekindled some long-buried memories and the spark of yet another friendship stretching back to the mid 1970s. We originally met at university and the names of other uni friends crop up regularly in the strangest places. Naturally the Internet is the perfect medium for this and over the years I've had the occasional email from old friends who've read this blog, or seen my profile on LinkedIn, or Friends Reunited, or found my website through Google.

There is a downside to this though. The reality of how easy it is to lose touch with people was brought home to me when I attended a school reunion about 15 years ago. It was such a strange experience I vowed never to attend one again (although I was tempted a couple of years back when they held a 25th -- or was it 30th? -- reunion). Not only the experience -- spending 3 or 4 hours in a function room with 50 people who at one time I saw on a daily basis but who, with one exception, I hadn't seen for 15 years -- but the aftermath. The impact of the realisation that I had completely lost touch with all of them, even those I'd thought of as close friends, really hit me surprisingly hard. I guess it just shows that friends are more than simply people you spend time with. Just as it's easy to be lonely in a crowded room, rubbing shoulders with a bunch of people every day for six years doesn't necessarily make them your friends. It knocked me for six a bit, did that.

Greek Night

As regular readers will know, we have a tradition of "safari nights" on our street where we journey from house to house for each course of an n-course meal (depending on the number of houses involved in that particular safari). Each one has a different theme, tonight's being Greek.

As you'll have seen earlier this week, tonight's safari was only organised last Friday, so we've not had long to arrange a costume. I was thwarted at every turn, as I wanted to do something a bit more original than a draped sheet (no offence to draped sheets, or those who wear them!) but every costume I found was either out of stock or not available in my size.

Until I found this. Which gave me the idea I was looking for, and was do-able in the time remaining. Especially since we still had a large cardboard box lying around from the last flat-pack furniture delivery which was the perfect size for the top and bottom plinth.

Cannibalising an old fitted sheet sufficed for the both the column (with Nat's help to spray-on some suitably Doric fluting) and the drapery around the "bust", white body paint turned my exposed body parts to stone and the whole thing was topped off with a "gold leaf" laurel from an online costumier.

Here's the final result.

With a little more time and thought I could probably have made a better job but even so I was quite pleased with it, and the surprise (or even shock in some cases) of the arriving guests was well worth the effort. I chose to stand over in a corner, unmoving, until each group of guests realised it was me.

Walking was somewhat hampered, and sitting impossible, so once everyone had enjoyed the full effect (i.e. shortly after we arrived at the second house) I removed the bottom half of the costume, but remained in "bust mode" for much of the rest of the evening, even though it made negotiating doorways... interesting. Chalk up (haha!) another successful safari night, with buckets of stifado, moussaka and ouzo thrown in. Brilliant.

Statue of liberty

The liberty being our neighbours - Torsten & Keith - who are shortly to depart these shores for a new life in Portugal. The statue being my chosen costume for the forthcoming Greek-themed safari night in honour of their leaving, for which we had less than a week's notice. It's happening on Friday, and I'm trying to pull together a statue costume in time.

Thank God for Internet shopping, rapid order fulfilment, and first class post. My body paint arrived today (successfully tested for wear, smudging, washability and skin reaction) and I'm hopeful that the laurel wreath will arrive tomorrow. The rest is all bodged together from old cardboard boxes, sprayed with B&Q project paint, and an old fitted sheet that was surplus to requirements.

First stage assembly of the top and bottom plinths of a mock-Doric column was completed today. Now I just have to figure out the best way of spray-painting the fluting on the column and I'm all set.

Italian Night

The latest safari night on the street kicked off at "new girl" Helen's place, where the antipasti were delightful and the Peroni and wine flowed freely from the very first ring of the doorbell. Yes, it was Italian Night this time round, and having managed to find a stripy shirt, a straw boater, and - courtesy of one of the many local charity shops - a single red curtain suitable for ripping into a rough cravat, sash, and a replacement band for the boater, I'd cobbled together a passable gondolier's outfit.

My imagination is clearly as limited as the majority of the neighbours: I was one of three gondoliers. If you think that's bad you should have counted the number of mafiosi in attendance! But as always, it didn't matter. The costumes are only there to get you into the spirit of the occasion, and there was more than enough spirit to go around.

Lasagne may have been a predictable menu choice, but it's all in the execution and this particular lasagne was murdered with relish by just about everyone. Everyone who had room left after scoffing the pizza and focaccia that followed the antipasti, that is. Thankfully the portions were small enough for me to enjoy a helping of spaghetti and spicy meatballs at the fourth house (add obligatory cod Italian accent when reading "spicy meatballs" of course. Something like this: sPIE-see meat-a-BALL!). By the time we hit the last house I could only just manage a single portion of tiramisu. Followed shortly later by an even smaller scoop of trifle. Not sure how Italian trifle is but by that time it didn't matter.

As always the conversation and the company, rather than the food, drink, or costumes, were the highlights of the evening and even though we were one house down due to illness our sojourn to la bella Italia was a great success and another fine chapter in the annals of neighbourly revelry.

Enthusiasm for safari nights remains undiminished too. At one point, when conversation turned to the topic of the next event, no fewer than six ideas for the theme were suggested. Enough to keep us going for another two years at least.

Silver Light

We attended a silver wedding event this evening for some friends, who also happen to be neighbours. One of the nicest families you could hope to meet, so it was an honour and a privilege to help them celebrate 25 years together, and a laugh to see all the old photos projected on the wall of the function room. That hair! That suit! That moustache! Etc. Well, it was 1985, and the eighties weren't exactly renowned for their fashions.

It occurred to me as we sat at the table and the conversation flowed around and through us, occasionally stopping to pick up some words and move on, like a verbal tram with an unpredictable timetable and a driver who may well have been R.P.McMurphy, that 1985 was also coincidentally the year I got married for the second time. Which means that, had I stuck it out, we too would be celebrating our silver wedding next month. Of course it's also true that, had I stuck it out, I would probably have been driving that tram, assuming I could have escaped the funny farm, so I think it's safe to say things have turned out for the best.

Our hosts being (reasonably) devout, we were "treated" to a blessing from "the father" at one point. Far be it from me to impose my beliefs and prejudices on anyone (although I hear fellow heretics shouting from the back "it never stops them!!"), but I could have happily done without hearing the message that the success of their marriage was actually nothing to do with their own efforts, but largely down to the beneficence of The Lord, who smiled down upon them from on high, probably on account of their having attended His Place of Worship on a regular basis.

Thankfully this drivel didn't go on for too long, as I was on the verge of converting to Dawkinism. I did wonder though, and not for the first time, exactly what credentials one requires to be a priest. Beyond the obvious predilection for... well... you know what I mean. By the look of the guy he must have been priesting for easily as long as our hosts have been married, and it wouldn't have surprised me to learn that he'd been at it twice that long. Yet in all that time he never found the time to actually learn the words of the blessing he delivered to the happy couple. Only a short passage, at most half the length of my introduction to this year's hotpot, which I learned in two weeks and delivered word-perfect on three occasions, and with many fewer polysyllabic utterances, but his years under the cloth had not provided sufficient opportunity to commit the simple homily to memory. He read it, falteringly it has to be said, from The Book, in a bored monotone utterly lacking in charisma or even any apparent interest. Apologies to Woody Allen but it made me think "those that can, do. Those that can't, teach. And those that can't teach, join the church."

Missing the festivals

We had a surfeit of festivals in Chorlton this weekend. The ZestQuest BeerFest - which we have been known to visit in years past - on Friday and Saturday; and the Beech Road Festival - which to be honest we've missed more than we've hit over the past ten years - on Sunday.

This year, we contrived to miss both. Couldn't really summon up the enthusiasm on Friday night, Saturday afternoon was never really an option (I can only do afternoon drinking if it's immediately followed by evening drinking), and I knew, based on last year's experience, that there'd be no beer left by Saturday night so there was no point going. In this at least I was proved right when a contingent of Chorlton Players were turned away at 7pm as most of the beer had run out. An organisational nadir for Chorlton's favourite (i.e. only) beer festival, it has to be said.

Sunday was forecast rain and in any case we had plans to begin the long task of tidying up the attic space, not to mention meeting our new neighbour, so we made an early decision to opt out of Beech Road festivities again this year. In this case it may have been the wrong decision, as the rain held off and a good time was (allegedly) had by all. But we had a good time too, so it wasn't all bad.

Not only did we greet our new neighbour, we were invited round to imbibe a few glasses of wine in the company of her and her parents. All very nice people and another fine addition to the community. 2010 is going to be a big year in terms of changes on the street, as the guys further along finally put their house on the market this week too, so assuming they have any luck selling we'll be welcoming yet another new arrival before the year's out.

Pimp My Hotpot: Final Night & BBQ 2010

A pretty hectic day for me yesterday, as the final night of the Hotpot show clashed with the annual street barbecue. So it was up with the lark to prepare the usual salads (always such a popular item I'd been asked to make the same three for the third year running), cut the new neighbour's grass (she moves in soon and it was looking like a bit of a jungle out there), and pull the garden chairs out from the depths of the shed.

BBQ started around 3pm and for once - unlike the last two years - the day was glorious. We'd had fabulous weather last weekend and the forecast in the early part of the week suggested we were in for a repeat of last year, missing the good weather by a week and being subjected to a downpour. Instead the bad weather slipped back a day and left us smiling under the sun while chomping on our toasties.

I should give the toasties a special mention this year, as it may well be the last year we enjoy them. Torsten & Keeth are set to emigrate to Portugal by the end of the summer, and their special contribution to every year's barbie will be greatly missed. Someone was supposed to watch the assembly of these delights this year so the tradition could be handed on, but no-one turned up and now they might be lost forever. I think I'll be popping down the road sometime soon with paper and pen. A street barbecue without toasties is unthinkable.

At 6.30pm, in the middle of the first quiz, I had to duck out, change into (one of) my stage costume(s) and drive over to the hall in preparation to open the final show. Even though I knew I had that monologue in my head, I didn't want to be blasé about it, and still repeated it to myself a couple of times before taking the stage. It all went very smoothly (although a slightly smaller audience than last night owing to the good weather) and pretty soon I was changing out of my tux into the black jeans and T I've been wearing all week for Beresford & Wallace's interval set.

On balance I think our performance last night was the best of the three. Not surprising, I guess, as it was the one we'd had most practice for, and I think we both (or all three of us if we include our guest artiste Becky Hodges who played a flute accompaniment to More Than Just Your Face) felt totally comfortable with both the material and the performing of it. But although it may have been technically the best performance I didn't enjoy it quite as much, both on account of knowing it was the last one, and because Nikki, Nat & Blythe weren't there as they'd been the night before. We did have a couple of friends in the audience, but it wasn't the same.

Coming off stage around 9pm I grabbed my other costume and headed back to the street BBQ, where the Chocolate Game had just finished and people were once again sitting around chatting. We had a very short gentle shower which caused us to move the chairs into a quadrangle under the gazebo, where we lit candles and enjoyed a couple of rounds of the Story Game (everyone in turn says a sentence to carry the story on) and Mafia (rules too complicated to relate but can be found here for anyone interested - although we didn't include the Nurse role mentioned there.) before moving inside, when the rain became more persistent, for another round of Mafia and more drinking (!)

Shortly after midnight most of the family had had enough so we left the remaining dozen or so revellers to their fate and wandered over the road. I picked up some more beer and headed off to the after-show party (another barbecue!) at Annie's - luckily only a short walk away. The rain had, mercifully, passed off a couple of hours before, leaving the night fresh and warm, and I spent a pleasant couple of hours munching on more BBQ food, sipping on a couple of ales and chatting with fellow members of cast & crew. It was also the first (and probably only) time I got to enjoy the Aftershow Awards ceremony that is a Chorlton Players tradition. Great fun. When I got home shortly after 3 I was more than ready to crash, even though dawn was already faintly visible over the roofs of the houses.

Celebrity Night

The last street safari night we attended was African Night, back in March 2009, which is a long interval. There has been one other in the interim - Cowboy Night - which by all accounts was a great success but which we had to miss on account of being elsewhere. Can't remember now exactly which else. Two of the neighbours took advantage of our absence to make up a cowboy-style "wanted" poster of us, which we thought was pretty cool.

The latest theme under which we intended to trail from house to house stuffing our faces with good food and various alcoholic beverages was Celebrity Night. We didn't have an awful lot of notice for this, or a really clear idea of what it meant, so with that feeble excuse most of us didn't make much of an effort. In a cop-out reminiscent of our very first safari outing (Mexican Night) I decided to be Jarvis Cocker on account of him normally wearing jeans and a tee, and me normally wearing jeans and a tee. Natalie cradled a bottle of port on one arm, hung onto me with the other arm and thus went as Natalie Port-Man, and Nikki didn't bother adopting a persona at all. Only Blythe gave it any thought and cobbled together a passable impression of Michael Jackson (he's dead you know), which almost saved our credibility in the face of some really good costumes from the rest of the neighbours.

We had Ozzy, Amy, Cheryl (and Ashley), Wally (as in, where's Wally?), Gaga, James Bond, Winnie (Churchill, not the Pooh), Mrs Q and Posh, Brian May and Minnie Mouse.

Celebrity food gave everyone pause. We opted for Sausage Surprise (from EastEnders) and I made a Red Pearl cocktail. We also enjoyed some excellent tapas, pâté & dips, lasagne, a chocolate fountain and an excellent cheeseboard. Most of the others went for some form of sparkling wine as the celebrity drink du jour.

Not such a late night as has been the norm, but all in all another successful safari to add to the archives.

Games Night

The various revelries of the neighbourhood have been reported many times on here - mulled wine night; the summer street barbecue; the safari nights. Last night saw the first of what (with any luck) will become another regular feature of social life on The Road: games night.

What better way to banish the winter blues on a cold, wet, February Monday than to gather in a large, plushly-carpeted, warm living room with a dozen or so neighbours and their assorted offspring, and sit around sipping wine, nibbling nibbles and laughing and joking as we play a selection of board games?

And what an impressive selection it was! All provided in-house. We chose Articulate! to begin, followed by a round of Boggle and then, after a break for some concentrated nibbling, finished off with a game of Balderdash which proved, if proof were needed, how good we all are at the gentle art of bullshitting.

A great night, which for me was extended by an hour when my hosts invited me (Nikki having called time early on account of having to work the next day) to stay behind for "one more drink" after everyone else had left. So on top of the laughs and the excellent craic, I was treated to more fine wine and fine conversation to round the evening off perfectly. I love it round here!

Coffee and Cake

Neighbour's birthday today and in response to their e-card we received a sunny "we've got coffee and cake - see you later?" email which sounded like a good way to pass an hour or so on a cold winter's Sunday.

We arrived to an impromptu gathering of select members of the street, all enjoying coffee from a continuously-replenished cafetiere and cake from a pair of groaning plates, one holding wonderfully moist carrot and walnut and the other a mouth-watering concoction involving apple and baked custard.

Yum! No wonder we love living round here! Sadly, this time next year the guys will probably be settling in to their new home in Portugal, so this spur-of-the-moment mini party could be the last of its kind.

Mullington Crescent

Our fourth mulled wine evening was a smaller affair than in previous years. We never ask for an RSVP, but this time round a majority of the houses on the street weren't represented. Just one of those things I guess. It's a busy time of year and folk have many calls on their time.

Still, it was nice that word got back to us via various roundabout routes that those who did attend enjoyed themselves. We certainly did. It's not really a lot of effort to mull a few pints of wine and put a small selection of nibbles into well-distributed dishes. And at least "small and intimate" meant we got to bed at a reasonable hour, rather than the 3am finishes which have been the norm in the past.

Family dinners

We headed over to Penistone yesterday afternoon for an evening in the company of my cousin and her husband. We don't see them very often (a couple of times a year on average) but when we do there's always lots of news to catch up on, and no matter how long we're there the conversation never dries up.

As it happened we couldn't have picked a better day, news-wise. My nephew had just that morning become a father for the first time. I say "nephew." In truth that's only a family tradition. Never having had any brothers or sisters(*), I'm bereft of "official" nieces and nephews and I've always felt that lack (of both siblings and their offspring) keenly. Tim is officially my second cousin, but that always sounds so distant to me. Hardly like a real relation at all. And I've never successfully got my head around that "once removed, twice removed" thing. No, far simpler for him and his two sisters to know me as "Uncle John", which they have always done, and, as a consequence, he conveniently becomes my nephew. QED.

So it's congratulations to Tim, and also to Sarah who (as we learned yesterday) is expecting as well, although she's trying to keep it quiet. Must be something in the water over Barnsley way. Don't worry Sarah, I don't suppose anyone you know comes anywhere near this Internet backwater. Other than your Mum & Dad, occasionally.

With those two major news bombshells out of the way the remainder of the evening, with its to-ing and fro-ing of almost a year's-worth of catching up, passed relatively quietly, punctuated by congratulatory phone calls, a most excellent meal, and the sound of neighbourhood bonfire night celebrations.

We returned home to the tail-end of another safari night on our road, which we'd had to reluctantly decline on account of our prior engagement. That didn't stop an intoxicated neighbour attempting to persuade us over the road to sample the delights of her cheeseboard at half past midnight. I managed to convince her I'd had enough cheese for one evening.

(*)More recently of course, I've been blessed with a cracking brother-in-law who, having been a prolific breeder in the past, comes with a ready-assembled supply of progeny who are therefore my nieces-in-law. Suddenly I've got more family than you can shake a stick at!

Spider Mum

For the last few weeks we've been nature watching through our new kitchen window. A spider took up residence there and shortly after we noticed she'd spun a small sac. By a lucky coincidence I happened to be standing by the window when she started laying her eggs into it, which gave me a kind of "godfather" proprietary feeling towards the little guys as I've watched the sac grow and swell over the weeks since.

Pretty soon individual spiderlets began to be discernible through the silk and then, shortly before the weekend, one of them crawled out. Followed by another. Pretty soon they were all moving slowly about in the space under the window rail, protected from wind and rain by a large web their Mum had spun over the corner of the window.

Now my camera is notoriously bad at extreme close-ups - the autofocus is always totally defeated (in this case it insisted on focussing on the neighbour's wall) and the manual focus is totally useless - so I've had to back off and zoom in from a distance for this shot, but if you click on the pic to expand it and then zoom in you should be able to see the little guys, who at this stage are still spending most of their time inside their old sac.

During the period of development, Mum has faded away almost to nothing. I mean literally. When she laid the eggs she looked like a regular small spider, but having not left their side for two whole months she's become gradually more transparent. A shadow of her former self.

All this has been a fascinating pageant, developing in front of our eyes as we check up on the family every time we do the washing up or make a cup of tea, but we've decided that once is enough. If there are any signs of sacs or egg laying next year I'll be deploying the hose. Incy Wincy she ain't.

BBQ 2009

Last year we missed the good barbecuing weather by a day. This year we missed it by an entire week. Yes last Saturday, as my UK-based readers will fondly recall, was a blisteringly hot and sunny 27° - perfect weather for a BBQ, garden games and sitting under the shade of a gazebo sipping Pimms, or your tipple of choice. Yesterday the only outdoor tippling was provided by the iron-grey clouds blanketing the city, which proceeded to dump their load on us from early morning until mid-afternoon.

Hardly the stuff to inspire thoughts of garden gallivanting, or to enthuse the weary salad-maker (me) as he chops his parsley and soaks his bulgur wheat for the tabouleh, or empties tins of assorted beans into a large stainless-steel bowl for the three-bean salad, especially when he'd been up since 5.30am to boil the potatoes and eggs for a classic potato salad.

Still, the late afternoon forecast was for the weather to dry up between 2-3pm and remain dry for the rest of the evening, so at least the day wasn't set to be a complete wash-out even if it didn't match the gloriousness of the previous weekend. Having sussed the weather, it was with some dismay we learned via neighbourhood runner that the BBQ - its early stages anyway - had been forcibly decamped to the local club for the hours of 3-6pm.

Our forlorn troop of salads wended its way down the road and around the corner shortly after 3pm to join the other cold food on a series of low tables, to be picked over while the kids were entertained with various games of musical chairs, bumps and egg & spoon races (Health-and-Safety-mandated plastic eggs, naturally).

After this brief exile we marched the remaining salads, quiches and trifles back down the road to their rightful home, alongside the soon-to-be grilled burgers, sausages, toasties, kebabs and an assortment of breads. At the urging of several neighbours I once again performed my erection in the garden - an impressive affair that can easily shelter 20 people - while other assorted male partners looked on with envy from their more traditional positions manning the barbecues.

It wasn't long before I'd put myself on the outside of three hot dogs, a burger, two toasties and two portions of tiramisu, at which point I realised I was almost incapable of sitting down so I'd better stop. Luckily it was time for the quiz, a marginally easier version of last year's organised into 26 questions whose answers began with successive letters of the alphabet. Our team - named Royal Jerseys in honour of the potato salad and other potato-related delights - won with 17/26. It would have been 18 if I'd been able to remember the Nikkei in time. Why is it when you need Nikkei all you can think of is Hang Seng?

All this tongue-in-cheek hilarity belies the fact that I was totally not in the mood for a social event yesterday. In fact all of us agreed we'd far rather be sat cosily in front of a good film than trying to find the other person in the room going "oink" (the Animal Game) or trying to pick up a rapidly-diminishing cereal carton using only our teeth, and without touching the floor with any part of our bodies other than feet (the Box Game). Looking on the bright side, we did manage to avoid any hint of Choo-Choo.

So for the second year running, we didn't stay until 3am. We didn't even stay until midnight. We left as soon as the Box Game had run its course (with five limber contortionists attempting to pick up a flat piece of cardboard from the floor), thereby relieving the remaining party-goers of our bah humbugnesses.

Perfect Saturday

Three hours in the garden. What a fabulous day. But one of those days where the job you intended to do can't really be started until you do another job, and that second job has a third job that needs clearing up first too.

So we cleared away a broken old bench that had collapsed over winter under the weight of a pile of raggedy old pots (and because it was made of chipboard - not the most weatherproof of materials); edged the grass (and as a consequence made a new path to the compost heap), moved the water barrel 4 inches to the left to accommodate the bench we were moving from under the conservatory, threw out all the dead potted plants, moved two other benches so we can start on the border tomorrow and prepared one of the under-bench areas to be sown with grass seed tomorrow.

Feel right satisfied with that. While we were gardening we noticed our neighbour-but-one was busy building a tree house for his new ready-made daughters who arrived a few months ago. What an impressive construction it is. Already, that is, and it's not much more than half finished. As we were chatting he pointed out a square "window" in the gable end which he'd asked his wife to make a stained glass window for. But she told him it's too much detailed work for a play house. Nikki and I had one of those gestalt moments: two minds with a single thought. Carolyn has already made a piece of stained glass that would be perfect for the job. It lived in our downstairs toilet window until the scallies chiselled it out last March. Since then it's been living in the conservatory waiting for us to decide what's best to do with it. And here was our answer.

Sadly I don't have a photo of it in situ that does it justice, so here it is shortly after the break-in, with SOCO's dab dust all over it. Well, would you believe it, the window is already an almost perfect fit for the tree house. With a small rebate and a bit of beading, it will sit beautifully in the gable and cast its glorious blue and orange light over the girls' play for years to come. And it was made by Mummy, so what better resting place for it?

Now we're both showered and rested, we're off to watch a movie. So far, perfect Saturday. It's mac and cheese for tea too, and Nikki's baking a cake. I tell ya, it don't get much better than this.

African Night

Amazingly it's been more than a year since our last "safari" night on the street - Bollywood night - but there are good reasons for that. Anyway, despite agreeing to organise the next one, and originally saying it would be Greek night, we decided in the end that there would be more room for culinary manoeuvre if we chose the entire African continent as a theme, and so African Night was born.

Even though there are umpteen African countries to choose from, costumes displayed a marked lack of imagination, with pith helmets and khakis being the norm for the chaps while a variety of animal attire (zebras and large cats mainly) seemed de rigeur for the chapesses. One or two enterprising souls had gone for some kind of colourful tent, but there was nothing approaching the splendour of the Indian garb from last time.

We began our safari across the road with some delicious piri-piri chicken, falafel, some kind of cured meat, and a huge pile of tuna samosas, along with "Safari" cider. Back to our side but further down for a selection of mezzes and a delicious orangey drink concoction whose name escapes me, before moving on to ours for bobotie and African Violets. As soon as we decided the theme for tonight, I knew I'd be cooking bobotie. I haven't had it for 25+ years but back then it was an old favourite. I had thought it originated in Kenya, but that's just where the person who introduced ME to it came from. A quick Google for the recipe revealed it to be a traditional South African dish (and before that, Dutch), which gave me a brief pause as one of our neighbours hails from SA and I knew I'd be feeding it to an expert.

In the end, I found three recipes, so I based the dish on this one, but added in little somethings from the other two as well as putting my own slant on it. I also made it with Quorn mince rather than beef, as we have at least two vegetarians on the street. The end result looked exactly as I remember it, and was greeted with much praise, especially from Keith, who declared it to be "just right." For me though, the highlight of our stop was the African Violet.

It's becoming something of a tradition on safari nights to have cocktails at our place, so I was delighted to find this recipe for a stunning-looking shot, comprising layered white crème de cacao liqueur, blue curaçao, and whisky. A little tricky to make - I cocked the first one up royally and just had to dispose of it in the only way possible - but once I'd had a bit of practice and steadied my hand, the layering turned out just right. I'd slipped home half-an-hour before the guests were due to give me chance to add the eggy topping to the bobotie and prepare a dozen African Violets, which went down really well. I ended up making another dozen!

Then it was on to #19, where the lads had made a variety of deliciously spicy stuffings for some traditional deep-fried dumplings, #16 where we were treated to dessert - a choice of tropical fruits, or bananas with toffee crunch sauce, or marvel cake (or something) which was spongy, treacly goodness in a small package. Fab! By this time, of course, we were all creaking at the seams, so we were glad our organisation had decided to have food at only 5 houses. The last stop was for drinks only, but we did end up staying until 4am!

Do what you can

Our neighbour Linda who lost her husband in the summer has been getting a lot of support from family and neighbours. The kind of tea-and-sympathy support a woman needs (sorry if that sounds patronising, but you know what I mean) which is, in short, not the kind of support we're very good at.

We're more "grit your teeth and get on with it" kind of people, not given to navel contemplation, rerunning old conversations, or group therapy.

Which makes you feel kind of useless in a situation where that's the kind of help that's required. So it was with a mixture of relief and gratitude - having said at the time that she only had to ask if she wanted our help with anything - that we greeted her recent request for help on a more practical level. She's recently bought a new TV and had no idea how to put it all together. At last! Something I *can* do.

So we trotted off round there yesterday afternoon and, with a great deal of "help" from the kids (both indigenous and local), and also some slightly more practical help with the lifting from another neighbour, spent two or three hours assembling the stand, fitting the bracket, mounting the TV, cabling up and performing the final installation.

It reminded me of an old Spiritualist tenet. To do what you can. Don't worry about what you can't do, but if a chance arises to help in some way - however trivial it may seem - take it. Never underestimate the impact you can have on someone's life, even though to you it is the easiest of tasks. To us, it was only two hours out of our Sunday afternoon. Nothing at all. To Linda and the kids, it meant being able to settle down in front of their shiny new telly without having had to fork out the exorbitant installation charge from the supplier. It's a win-win! Smiles and cheers all round.

Mulled but not dulled

Our traditional mulled wine party was graced with family this year, as not only my elder daughter but also my cousin and her husband came over for the occasion.

So we had a kind of ante-party from about 5pm onwards, with a lot of delightful chat, catching up, and few sandwiches and nibbles before I set about mulling the wine shortly after 7pm. Things were slightly more confused than usual, since over the years we have gradually accumulated three varieties of mulling spices, each with their own discrete instructions. The first, and the one we've used in each of the last two years, requires a bottle of wine to half a bottle of water (only we use three bottles of wine to get the party started, naturally, and top up throughout the evening as the guests arrive with another bottle or eight).

The second box of spices, which we expected to have to break into this year, suggests a bottle of wine to a third of a bottle of water (75/25cl). And finally the box which we procured last year from the Northwest Fine Food Festival and are not expecting to have to use until next year, suggests using no water whatever.

Now I'm in the habit of refilling everyone's cup/mug/glass as soon as they become empty, so I opted for the first (i.e. the tried and trusted) recipe. I like to see my guests merry, but I don't want to impose a raging red-wine headache on anyone!

As last year, the first guests arrived at 8.10, and a handful of others drifted in between then and 9.30, by which time I was beginning to feel a little disappointed at the turnout. We'd had notice of no-shows from two couples, and fully expected one other couple to turn up in halves, as they have very young children to look after, but as for the rest...? I'd almost decided it wasn't worth lighting the oven - there was no way we could get through 100 hot Indian party nibbles with the numbers we'd had up to then - when virtually the whole of the rest of the street turned up in the space of 15 minutes.

Just goes to show you never need to worry about parties. They always turn out alright. Especially round here, where mulled wine evening is a well-established part of the social calendar.

Just one further thing to mention. I was discussing the party earlier this evening with a friend, explaining how I'd kept the wine flowing and we'd all had a great time chilling out, chatting, exchanging anecdotes and just generally enjoying the ambience and the company of good friends. She said: "That sounds sooooo John Beresford!" And you know what? She's right. I *do* like to be the enabler of good times for people I love.

A hive of activity

It's amazing what you can get done when there's a party in the offing.

We're holding our annual mulled wine evening tonight, so we've been busy since about 8am this morning:

• putting the finishing touches to the tree (i.e. hanging the red and gold beads, setting the timer, and fixing the skirt)
• erecting the small sparkly fibre-optic tree in the lounge
• boiling the eggs for sandwiches
• vacuuming absolutely everywhere
• opening up the conservatory, turning up its radiators and removing the dead flies
  
• preparing the mulling equipment
• cleaning absolutely everywhere that hasn't been vacuumed
• hanging the last few decorations
• fetching an uplighter so those in the conservatory can see each other
• fixing a hook for the towel in the downstairs cloakroom
• hanging the windchime (that's been sitting in a bag in the front porch for two years)
• putting up the Christmas cards (two so far)
• refilling all the tea-light holders
• plumping cushions
• generally tidying up and putting away of boxes
  

Four-and-a-half hours later and there's almost nothing left to do. Except have a shower.

And make the sandwiches.

And mull the wine (but that comes later).